


Hollow trees underneath my feet

by lonelywalker



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Age Difference, F/M, First Time, Older Man/Younger Woman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 22:51:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5516204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonelywalker/pseuds/lonelywalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry meets her eyes. “I don’t want this to be about him.”</p>
<p>“If it was about him,” Caitlin says, “I would’ve shot you with your own gun two weeks ago.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hollow trees underneath my feet

**Author's Note:**

> Post 2x07. Title from the Old Man Canyon song.

After the particle accelerator explosion, when FEMA and the investigative teams had finally cleared out of the wreckage, leaving locked gates and warning signs behind, it had just been the two of them for a while. A lab that had once bustled with activity, that despite its size often seemed too _small_ to hold hundreds of scientists, engineers, and admin staff, had been reduced to one working level and two employees. 

Well, “employees” was probably wrong too, at the time. The lab was a ruin. Everyone else had made it clear they weren’t coming back, some in hospitals, some with family, some even leaving town completely. Dr. Wells was at home recuperating from serious, life-threatening injuries. There probably wasn’t even a company to employ them anymore. Caitlin hadn’t been brave enough to check her finances. Sure, she’d been frugal, saving for the wedding, but not as frugal as she’d have liked to be, if she’d known what was coming.

They should both have stayed home too. Her parents couldn’t understand why she wasn’t getting as far away from the lab as possible. Cisco’s mom was always calling him, convinced her little boy would get radiation poisoning, or be crushed by fallen masonry. But they’d both shown up there, both expecting they’d be the only one. They’d hugged for what seemed like forever. She’d cried. He’d cried. They’d gone back to work.

She’d got used to looking in on Cisco’s workshop at night before she left, to check he was okay, if he needed a ride somewhere, if he’d eaten lately. Dr. Wells refused all kinds of socializing and she couldn’t break him out of his solitude, but she could drag Cisco home with Thai takeout and DVD sets, and call that coping. They’d been friends before, but a lot of them had been friends. After the explosion, it was like they were the only two people left in the world.

That intense isolation only lasted a couple of weeks before Dr. Wells brought Barry to the lab, and even though he was unconscious for nine months, the place suddenly seemed less lonely, with Joe and Iris visiting almost daily. She’d still checked up on Cisco, though. Still looked in every night to find him puzzling over microcircuits, or sometimes passed out with his head on the keyboard.

So she looks in tonight too. It’s been a quiet day, with Barry going back to work and then tackling some minor non-superpowered burglars and muggers. She’s been monitoring his vitals, scanning his spine, but everything seems to be as perfectly fine as Barry usually is. Still, her adrenaline’s been buzzing higher than usual – memories of Zoom appearing with Barry’s broken body, and of Grodd trapping her in his belltower. She hadn’t been _afraid_ of Grodd, exactly. He could rip her apart in a second, but she understood him. She knew what he wanted. Knew that he liked her and didn’t, in his heart, want to hurt her. Zoom couldn’t be reasoned with, couldn’t be fooled, couldn’t even be comprehended. He could appear at any second and slaughter all of them. Linda had gone to Coast City. Cisco had laughingly suggested they all do the same. The sort of laughingly where he half hoped they’d take him seriously.

Barry’s gone home to have dinner with Joe and Iris. Cisco had left early too, mentioning something about a date with an angel. She _knows_ he isn’t there. But habit makes her look in. Just in case.

_He’s_ there. Three screens on the desk in front of him, running algorithms on breach locations, showing news headlines, mirroring the police feed they monitor in the Cortex. In the last couple of weeks, she’s resisted thinking about him when he’s out of the room. His presence is too complex to contemplate. She’s spent eight months missing the friend she’d thought Dr. Wells was, and now this Dr. Wells isn’t even that man, though his eyes are still that fixating blue, his unruly hair even more tousled, his voice and movements the same, or close enough. Maybe if he dressed differently, if his glasses were a different brand, it would be easier. Not easy, but easier.

After Jay’s warnings, she hadn’t been sure of him. Not even after he ran out to defend Barry with nothing more than a dart gun no one was sure would work. Joe had been ready to murder him for what Zoom had done, never mind that they’d all agreed to the plan in the end. But when he’d walked into the belltower to save her, he’d had no weapons, no protection bar the suit, which had barely stopped Grodd’s slap from shattering his ribs. He’d stayed on Earth-1 for her. Risked his life for her. She’d sat by his bedside, his blood on her hands, too nervous to meet his eyes, to find something to say that would express everything she felt. But she’d only said “Thank you” in the end. What else was there?

And now they’re in a room alone for the first time. His head against the desk, glasses askew over closed eyes, his face turned toward the door. She should take a step back and leave him. He’s an adult. He’s not her responsibility. Joe would say he was dangerous, that she should always make sure Barry or Cisco was with her, although she’s not exactly sure what Cisco would do. Attack him with the vacuum cleaner?

She touches his shoulder before she can talk herself out of it. “Hey.” Would she ever have done this to Dr. Wells? Her Dr. Wells? No. She’d have stood six feet away and cleared her throat loudly and said his name. Her hand wouldn’t be on the wool of his black cardigan. She wouldn’t feel the warmth of him. Every breath. “Hey,” she says again, louder, shaking him a little. “Dr. Wells?”

_Harry_ , she thinks. It’s what she calls him in her head, even if she’s never said it out loud. She doesn’t even know what he prefers to be called. But _Harry_ is somehow easier than _Harrison_ , which still feels far too personal, the name she avoided calling his counterpart for years. She can pretend _Harry_ is a different person entirely.

He stirs, pulling his shoulder away. “Jesse?”

“No, it’s… it’s Caitlin. You fell asleep.”

He blinks at her, straightening his glasses and lifting his head, a hand going to massage his neck. “Dr. Snow. What time is it?”

She’s wondered if his metahuman-detecting watch actually tells the time. “Late. You should be-” _Going home_ , except she’s not totally sure where he’s been sleeping. There’s probably a couch somewhere. The med bed in the Cortex until Barry started using it. “You should be in bed.”

He rubs his cheek where it had met the desk. “Oh.”

Dr. Wells, her Dr. Wells, Eobard Thawne – he’d never needed the glasses, due to his speedster healing factor, or at least he hadn’t after he got his speed back. Harry probably does need them, slipping them on when he’s at computer screens, but he takes them off now, looking at her.

His “are you all right?” comes out at exactly the same moment as her “how’s your side?” And then so do “I’m fine” and “it’s fine.”

She smiles, glances around at Cisco’s dozen on-the-go projects. “I should take another look at it tomorrow. I ran scans to check for whatever bacteria Grodd could be carrying around, but he used to live in the sewers, so…”

“Okay,” he says.

She’s so used to a don’t-touch-me attitude from Dr. Wells that his quiet acquiescence brings her up short. His resistance to Cisco touching him had made her think he was the same way. But then Cisco’s touch could come with more than friendly reassurance.

“Do you… need anything?” she asks, knowing how awkward it sounds. Probably someone _could_ live here. They’ve got enough food in the kitchen for sandwiches and snacks, though they mostly order in. Does Harry even have money? He must. Maybe Cisco gave him one of the S.T.A.R. Labs credit cards. Maybe Earth-2 currency is close enough to Earth-1 dollars to slip past unnoticed. Jay’s been living in the city for months somehow.

Again, from her Dr. Wells she’d get a tiny smile and “I’m fine, you should get home.” 

“I meant to ask before,” Harry says, “but do you have extra supplies around here? Pillows? Blankets?”

“Pillows,” she repeats dumbly. “Blankets. Yes, of course.” Her eyes narrow. “What have you been doing for two weeks?”

His smile is slightly sheepish. “Ramon’s desk is _very_ comfy.”

Caitlin throws up her hands in mock drama. Well, _mostly_ mock drama. “Seriously? Am I the only functioning adult who works here? When did I become everyone’s mom?”

His smile grows wider, his tongue poking at a corner of his mouth. “Not to usurp your position, Dr. Snow, but I’m pretty sure Detective West is everyone’s mom.”

“Well he’s not yours.”

“No… He seems to be under the impression he’s my parole officer.”

She stands there. Awkwardly. “Caitlin,” she says. 

There’s warmth behind those ice-blue eyes. “Harry,” he says. “Apparently.”

“You don’t mind?”

“My parents used to call me that. And my wife. But that was a long time ago. Now I’m _Dr. Harrison Wells_. The world doesn’t have the imagination to call me anything different. But I understand why you would.”

“Dr. Wells… The man we thought was Dr. Wells… He meant a lot to all of us.”

Harry leans back in his chair, crossing his long legs at the ankles. “Good and bad. He betrayed your trust. He murdered Ramon, and Barry’s mother, and your husband.”

She nods, but she’s always been reluctant to blame him outright for Ronnie’s death, the same problem she’d had blaming him the first time Ronnie died, even after Hartley revealed that Dr. Wells had known the accelerator might explode. Dr. Wells had never meant to hurt Ronnie. Despite everything she knows now, she _also_ knows the lengths he went to in order to get Ronnie back. She’d lost hope while he never had. Barry and Cisco can more easily push away their memories of a good man. She has more difficulty accepting it was all an illusion. 

“And yet you’ve been nothing but nice to me,” Harry says. “Professional, anyway.”

“We need you to help us defeat Zoom.”

“The others know that too. But you were the only one who really wanted me to stay.”

“You saved my life.”

“Before that, though. You stood up to your friends on my behalf. When I’m a stranger. When my counterpart committed unforgivable crimes against you, personally.”

“Your counterpart…” She’d picked up the biography he’d been perusing. She’d read it years ago, but she had different eyes now. “Harrison Wells was a good, kind man. Everyone who went to school with him, who worked with him in college, at the labs in Maryland and Starling City, they all say he was one of the gentlest, sweetest men they’d ever met. Brilliant, but humble. And he loved Tess so much they said it was like two people had sprung out of a fairytale romance. Until the car crash.”

“When she died.”

“When they both died. The man we knew was Eobard Thawne. Maybe he had some of the real Harrison’s memories, but he wasn’t the same man. You are.”

Harry shakes his head, flips hair away from his eyes. “I’m still not him. Kind and humble… Those aren’t words you’ll find in my biography.”

“I know identical twins can grow up under the same roof and still be very different people. But you’re a physicist. You founded S.T.A.R. Labs. You love your daughter. That’s a long way from being a murderous time-traveling speedster.”

“I’d hope so.” The smile is back. “I looked _great_ in that suit, though.”

She shouldn’t smile in response, but she does. “I’ve never been so relieved to see it.”

“I guess not. I took some photos for Jesse… Better than Halloween.”

“You’ll get her back,” Caitlin says, deliberately adding a note of confidence to her voice. “We’ll get her back.” She doesn’t even know this girl. But she’s an innocent kid, and they are _not_ losing someone else.

Harry murmurs an “mm hmm” and jumps to his feet so suddenly she doesn’t have a chance to step back and give him space. “The store room?” he says. After so much time, it’s still a surprise to see him on two feet, for him to look down at her. And now, for him to be so close she can smell his aftershave. At least if she closed her eyes he wouldn’t seem like her Dr. Wells. 

_I never kissed him_ springs to mind, and she’s so shocked by it, trying to remember what train of thought led her there, that Harry touches her elbow. “Caitlin? Are you okay?”

“Um, yes! Yes. I was just… You know, I bet if we go up a level there are still cots there. No more sleeping on chairs and desks.”

“Lead the way,” he says.

There _are_ still cots, a whole room of them intended for staff who stayed long after hours, or who were trying to catch naps between test cycles. But probably no one’s been on this level in two years, ever since Cisco assessed the structural integrity. There’s still equipment in the corridor, maybe hauled around by FEMA or by Cisco himself. Harry moves some of it out of the way, unblocking the door. The light from outside illuminates the thick cloud of dust hovering over the room. Caitlin coughs. New buildings never have asbestos in them, right?

“You can’t sleep up here,” she says. “You’ll have black lung by tomorrow.”

Harry tugs at one of the frames. “Think you can help me carry this?”

It’s a lightweight wood and more awkward than heavy once they clear a pathway, tossing the dust-covered blankets aside and taking only the mattress with the bed. Once they make it back to the elevator and wedge it inside, she dusts off her hands (although they’ll be dusty again in a second) and looks at him. Looks at _him_. Because she never saw Dr. Wells like this. He’d been dynamic before the accelerator explosion, a live wire, but she can’t remember ever seeing him get his hands dirty, a stripe of gray dust smeared across the black sweater, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Since Harry arrived, she’s barely seen him without a screwdriver, circuit parts, firearms, once lugging what looked like a jet engine up from the pipeline. Harry’s no less a genius than Eobard Thawne, even without the benefit of future knowledge, but he’s also a… she wants to say _a real boy_. He might be from another world, but he’s solid, authentic, genuine. A real soul in a real body. 

They set the bed down in the most unobtrusive corner of Cisco’s workshop. Cisco could probably use a place to nap too. He’s been living at his parents’ place since the Singularity, and practically living on Flash coffees. Caitlin’s sometimes considered shooting him with a sedative dart just to get him to close his eyes, but she’s not going to make him face whatever it is that he’s avoiding in his dreams.

“Thank you,” Harry says when she brings him sheets and pillows from a storage closet. They might smell musty, but they’re clean. Tomorrow she’ll buy new ones for him. Maybe some new underwear at the same time. He might be an expert on miniaturization, but there’s only so much he could’ve fit in his pack.

“Do you need any help?” She’s back to standing awkwardly, a little closer to him than she really should be.

Harry drops the sheets onto the bed. “I’m fine. My hospital corners are something to behold.”

She wants to know so much more about his past, and about his life on Earth-2. About his daughter. About her mom. But he doesn’t want to talk about it in the way she doesn’t want to talk about Ronnie. He’ll always be part of her, but she has to go on. What she does after his death counts just as much as anything they did together.

A cutting remark from him would let her go. He’s supposed to be abrupt. Rude. A dick. But he’s looking at her in a way that isn’t irritation, or confusion about why she’s still here. Maybe because she _is_ still here, looking at his very blue eyes, his wild hair, thinking about how he almost doesn’t look like Dr. Wells at all.

“Caitlin…” he says.

It’s like the night with Jay in the van, or her third date with Ronnie so many years ago. The air has changed. Something is going to happen, something she wants, and falling toward that something is thrilling enough that she wants to grab his wrist and hold on.

Harry glances down and then meets her eyes again. “I’m not usually anything but direct. But there are some…” He purses his lips, reconsiders his words. “I don’t want this to be about what happened with Grodd. And I don’t want this to be about him.”

“If it was about him,” Caitlin says, “I would’ve shot you with your own gun two weeks ago.”

He smiles with his eyes, runs the backs of his fingers down her bare forearm. “No you wouldn’t.”

“Well. I would’ve let Joe do it.”

“Now I believe you.”

She wraps her hand around his wrist, tugs him closer, and kisses him. It’s been a long eight months, full of pain and grief and loss. She hadn’t wanted a lover and no one had expected her to. But Jay had opened her eyes to the possibility of feeling alive again. Taking a man to bed didn’t have to be about true love and marriage. It didn’t have to be about replacing Ronnie. It could just be about wanting to be warm.

Harry’s softer than she expected – his lips, the touch of his tongue, his hands light on her. Had she wanted rough and hard and fast? His body pressed to hers is enough, her fingers threading through his hair, keeping his mouth right where she wants it so she can kiss him good and deep.

“We’re going to need condoms,” she says when Harry begins to unbutton his cardigan. The exhaustive scans she’s run on him indicate he’s free from STDs, but there’s no harm in being safe. And, most of all, she wants to be clear about where this is going. Where it might always have been going.

“I didn’t bring any in my wallet from Earth-2,” Harry says, dropping cardigan and gray shirt on the end of the bed, “but Ramon is nothing if not well-prepared. And strangely optimistic.” He pulls out a drawer from one of the desks, midway through taking off his undershirt.

“Don’t underestimate Cisco.”

“Wouldn’t dare.” Harry taps at the computer keyboard. “Just in case someone decides to come back this late at night.”

“Alerts won’t do much with Barry.”

The door to the workshop, rarely used, slides closed.

“Dr. Wells taught him how to phase through objects.”

Harry cocks his head to the side. “Maybe I should hang a sock on the handle.”

He’s older but his body barely looks it, slim and muscular, marred more by the bandage at his side than by age. As he unzips her dress, she touches him for the first time as something other than a doctor.

It could’ve been Jay. If it had been Jay, would it still be Harry now? They’re diametric opposites, or seem that way – the upright hero with his solid morals, and the reckless scientist willing to take on the universe itself, no matter the cost. Jay reminds her of Ronnie so easily, good and uncomplicated, the kind of man she can imagine introducing to her parents, imagine lying on the couch with in ten years, a couple of kids running around… Does she even _want_ that life? Before the particle accelerator explosion, she’d thought she did. But that was when she was a geneticist making a good salary and a name for herself, on a traditional, exemplary career path. Two years fighting crime has changed a lot.

“Are you cold?” Harry asks in a whisper. She must have shivered as he folded her dress down around her waist, his fingers playing on her bare shoulders.

“No.” Really, the heat from all the machines humming in the workshop is fine.

“Nervous, then?”

Not a lot has ever made her nervous, and even less now that having her life threatened is pretty much a weekly occurrence. But there are times she’d take sitting on top of a bomb before navigating her way through romance. Or whatever this is. “It’s been a long time… since someone new.”

He nods. “You’ve been hurt.”

“So have you.” There’s never been a right time to ask him about his love life, but his daughter is missing and he’s alone. It’s not much of a guess.

“We could stop.”

Caitlin reaches back, unhooking her bra. “We can always stop.”

Kissing him this time is less of a discovery and more of an exploration. She wants to touch him in ways she couldn’t when he was her patient and research subject. She wants to let herself look at him that way, not as a specimen, but as a man. The heat of him surrounding her when he takes her in his arms and when her breasts press against his chest, the muscles she can trace with her fingertips. Wherever he’s been sleeping, he’s clean. There’s soap under the motor oil.

She undoes his belt, letting baggy jeans drop, feeling the ridges of slim hips. Black boxer briefs. Would she have guessed anything different? She lets her palm drift over his bulge, the fabric smooth and tighter than it should be. His hand is gentle on her breast, stroking the hard nipple, and that’s when she really feels naked, exposed. She steps back to take off her dress while he gets rid of his jeans. Damn, stupid, evil clothes.

Another kiss and she ducks her head, kissing his chest, feeling the ridges of abs he’s tensing, the stark veins and treasure trail leading into his shorts.

She gets down on her knees.

The first thing she wants to do is stammer out an “I don’t normally do this” or “I haven’t done this in a while” in case he might judge her. But, God, they’re adults, not judgy sorority sisters, and if she wants to suck cock then she’s not going to make herself feel bad doing it. Definitely not when she’s getting hot thinking about it, kissing his growing bulge through the shorts, paying _very_ good attention to the way Harry’s breath stutters, the way he changes his stance and grips the edge of the desk. 

He’s hard, really hard, by the time she carefully eases down his shorts, letting him step out of them, and she can’t help thinking about the fact that this is how her Dr. Wells – Eobard – would have looked too, big and stiff, flushed a shade or two darker than the rest of him. She looks up into his too-blue eyes, and smiles at the way he’s licking dry lips, _needing_ this. He’s going to feel so good inside her later.

It feels odd, though, once she’s licked his length, kissed the tip, and really taken him into her mouth. It’s been so long since she did this, having a man sliding past her lips, pressing on her tongue, and she’s thankful Harry doesn’t thrust, doesn’t do anything except sigh, until she can figure out how to enjoy it again. And after a moment or two it’s not difficult to remember how good this feels, a hand straying between her legs as she sucks him, knowing he’s this hard for her, because he wants her this badly. She can feel her own pulsing heat through her panties, echoing the slide of him, the way Harry starts moaning, biting his lip as if trying to keep it back. He starts rocking his hips and she doesn’t mind. She wants it, now, that animal need within him, even thinks about keeping going so she can taste him when he comes… But she already knows there’ll be a next time.

“Caitlin,” Harry says eventually, and she lets him pop out of her mouth.

Her knees hurt a little when she gets back up – would it _kill_ Cisco to have softer flooring? – but she forgets about it quickly, dropping her panties on the little pile he’s made of his clothes, stroking his saliva-thick cock when she kisses him again. And his hands are everywhere, on her back, her ass, slipping down between her legs to _almost_ start relieving the pressure that’s been building up.

“God, I need you,” Harry says, and lifts her up.

It’s only a few paces to the bed, but it feels like something special to be laid out there and kissed, his hand exploring her wetness as he kisses her neck and suckles at a nipple. If he’d just fuck her she’d be satisfied, but more is… well, she’s curious. And she’s nowhere near as well-behaved as he is when he gets his mouth on her, arching up into him because she can’t bear not to have that warm, wet, clever tongue against her. Even his _breath_ on her clit, Jesus… It’s been too long. Way too long. When she cries out in frustration it’s half at herself for not picking up some guy, any guy, months before now.

Harry looks up the length of the bed at her, eyebrows raised. “It’s okay,” he says. “Whatever you need, it’s okay.”

What she needs – and she doesn’t even think about it – is to press his head hard between her thighs, his hair tangled up painfully in her fingers, and fuck his tongue. She can’t process exactly what he does, in between the way he swirls his tongue around and over her clit, licks her cunt deep, but she’s soon shivering with it, touching her flushed, so-sensitive breasts, holding her breath between waves of pleasure that go far beyond anything she could’ve given herself.

“Harry,” she gasps, because she wants to remember, wants herself to know that it’s him, with everything that means. Dangerous, reckless Harry Wells. Not her husband, not her boyfriend. A man twice her age who sends an electric thrill right through her.

She can feel how wet she is when he slides two fingers inside her, thrusting and curling them, opening her up and building on the growing heat and pressure… The fingers are a promise of what’s next, but they’re enough right now, when his mouth is giving her exactly what she wants and those waves of pleasure aren’t waves at all, just an ongoing, desperate feeling that soars to a peak. Her cries are mostly curses, but his name’s in there somewhere too, especially when she’s coming down from it, straining muscles relaxing, his mouth still so sweet on her.

“Please,” she says, grasping his shoulder and pulling.

He straddles her, sitting back and working himself fully hard again before he rolls on the condom.

“What you need is okay too.” Her hands smooth down his thighs. “It’s okay to want to feel good. We all need it sometimes.”

Harry nods, not meeting her eyes, and moves.

She wraps her legs around him as he eases inside her, pulling him down into a kiss to close the distance. They might not be dating, might not even be friends, but she’s not going to do this and still be cold and alone. He opens her mouth with his, his tongue still holding the taste of her, as he slides in nice and deep. She rolls her hips, shifting just a little, moving to meet his thrusts. Her fingers in his hair are gentler now, stroking while they kiss, while he cups her breast, his thumb stroking circles on her nipple that make her cunt tighten, which makes him groan a little and keep doing it. And it’s… _easy_ , not violent or desperate, not like they’re almost-strangers banging in a workroom in the middle of the night. The idea that this is exactly what he wants shakes her. Harry Wells, who bloodies his knuckles on heroes, wants to make love, to hold and be held.

“Oh that’s good,” she murmurs, her free hand feeling the planes of his back, the motion of him. “That’s so good.”

She’d thought that, after Ronnie, intimacy would be the hardest thing. But she wants Harry close, his cheek on her shoulder, her hand on the back of his head as he moves a little faster, a little harder. She can feel every one of his breaths, smell him, trail her fingertips through the beads of sweat on his back. She wants to know him, all of him, inside and out.

“Oh God, I love it.” It comes out the next time he hits just that right spot and she moves with him, drops her hand from his back and pushes it down between them, needing to touch herself now. She could so easily have said something else, and that would’ve been a mistake. “I need… I need…”

He gets it. Somehow he gets it, with a half-dozen snaps of his hips and his mouth pressed to her throat, and she comes, softer now, but it’s a pleasure that rolls and lasts until he’s coming too, his cry wordless, his breathing harsh.

They hold each other for a long time, even when he slips out of her and throws away the condom, even when he has to move to avoid crushing her. They don’t speak.

She tries to imagine what tomorrow will be like, when Cisco and Barry are around them, when they have so much to do. She tries to imagine not touching him, not remembering, not feeling him inside her while they brainstorm and banter.

“We need to go,” she says, decisive at last.

“We?” 

She sits up, disentangling herself from him, and casting about to gather up their clothes. The room seems colder now that she’s been wrapped in him for so long. “It’s late. You’re not going to make that bed tonight.”

“I’m not sure it needs to be made…”

“And,” she says, handing him his glasses and dumping his jeans in his lap, “we’re going to want to do this again in the morning.”

He looks at her steadily, questions forming on his lips. He slides his glasses on. 

“Okay,” he says.


End file.
